‘Bella would not want you arriving with a dead baby and yourself not much better.’
Rose is not listening. ‘She cannot come here so I will have to go there.’
Janet laughs. ‘Rose, even you would not be so mad. You are still bleeding.’
Rose shakes her head impatiently. ‘Find a cart, then. I will keep my feet up and a blanket around the little boy. Or else I will walk.’
Brennan speaks heavily. ‘Rose, I forbid it. We will go in a week, if all is well. And we will send Bella the news at once.’
Rose’s cheeks flame. ‘Forbid, is it? That is not a word we use, Brennan. No one will bring the news to Bella but me. And today!’ Again she goes to rise, and again Janet pushes her back.
‘Brennan,’ says Janet, ‘a word.’ And jerks her head to the door. Outside she speaks in a low voice.
‘You know what she is feckin’ like when her mind is made up.’
‘There is no way —’
‘She’s as healthy as an ox, and had a short labour.’
‘No.’
‘She could do more injury to herself fighting you up here.’
‘The bleeding?’
Janet wonders if he knows about the scars. ‘There are many splits, but all small. The blood she has lost is not a deep concern.’
Brennan frowns. ‘But my son — he should surely stay warm?’
‘Surely he should. Brennan, I would not advise it for another woman, but Rose …’
Brennan shakes his head. He hums a little tune. Janet speaks quietly. ‘Brennan, you know her better than all of us. She is not like any other woman. She will perhaps recover best if she has seen Bella.’
Brennan lowers his head. Like a stubborn ox, thinks Janet. ‘Nolly’s cart is at the yard,’ she says. ‘It is sprung, the day is fine, and we have blankets …’
And so Nolly, who has sworn to keep clear of the evil Rose, finds himself driving the very lady, who smiles and thanks him and appears extremely unlike a banshee. Nolly grins back, proud as punch to be driving the tiny newborn baby, even though the anxious father curses every stone the wheels encounter, and demands a pace that would shame a snail.
At the log house Brennan, his spirits up again now that the journey is safely negotiated, turns to Nolly. ‘Open the door for us,’ he says, ‘but quietly. This is to be a surprise. Then stay. I will need your help.’
Rose, a little pale but smiling, holds the baby with one arm and clings to her husband with the other as he lifts wife, baby and blankets, and, holding them like a precious gift, walks onto the veranda and in through the door.
Bella, half dozing on her settee, cries out, at first in fear to see Rose carried so, and then in joy at the sight of the baby. Brennan walks through to the bedroom, lays his bundle on the bed and then, with Nolly’s help, pushes bed, mother and child until they are alongside the old lady. Rose, ready now to rest, leans over and lays the child in Bella’s lap.
‘Your grandchild,’ she says with a tired smile, ‘as ordered.’
Nolly thinks Rose looks so beautiful: pale, but with a kind of triumph shining out of her like a halo. Could Will Scobie have made all the other stuff up?
Bella offers her finger. The baby, wide-eyed, grasps it tight. ‘Oh, the sweetheart!’ she breathes. ‘The little love.’ Suddenly she looks up at Brennan. ‘When was he born?’
‘Five hours ago.’
The old lady explodes. ‘What! What are you doing bringing her out like this?’
Brennan laughs. ‘I tried my best not to!’
Nolly waits at the door a little longer, hoping to find evidence of even a hint of a foul deed to relate back to Will, but can find none at all. Rose, half asleep now, speaks gently to her mother.
‘It is for you to name him.’
Bella pulls a sharp breath. ‘But Rose … surely the father …’
Brennan lays a hand on his son’s tiny black head. ‘You choose. We would both like you to.’
‘Well then,’ says Bella, tears running streams down her old face. ‘Conrad.’
‘Conrad the seventh?’ asked Rose.
‘No, no, no. Surely we are beyond titles now, Rose. What good did they serve my Con or our son? This little fellow will be Conrad; simply the name.’ She strokes the soft hair. ‘I name you Conrad Brennan Scobie.’
A Royal Parade
THE YEAR THAT followed, 1904, was perhaps the happiest in Rose’s twenty-five years. Little Conrad thrived, a miraculously healthy and contented baby, given the way Rose carted him around. Bella adored and spoiled her little grandson. Often, when Brennan’s work took him to Denniston, he would take the baby with him on horseback. Little Con was strapped into one saddlebag, Brennan’s work journal in the other, balancing the weight. Melody, Brennan’s pony, seemed to understand and would step lightly among the stones. Not that sunny little Con minded the bouncing and jouncing; he would laugh and wave fat fists and then fall asleep. Bella would clap to see them come; would sing to the boy and let him grab at her earrings, and feed him crumbs of sweet cake.
‘Mrs Sweeney!’ she would call, leaning from her window and waving to attract her neighbour’s attention. ‘Marie, come quick and see what my Conrad is up to now!’
On this fine and breezy morning, though, Bella has more than her grandson’s new trick in mind.
‘Marie,’ she says, ‘can you take an hour or two from the washing and we will have a small adventure? This old lady cannot manage on her own.’
Marie Sweeney, wife of the head brakeman and a good ten years younger than Bella, is up to her elbows in housework, for she has two boys in the mines, another at the Bins and a daughter still at school, but who can deny the Queen of the Camp? Besides, she is curious.
‘Mrs C,’ she says, ‘whatever have you in mind? I thought you were confined to home rest these days?’
Bella tickles little Con’s tummy and the boy laughs out loud.
‘Oh, aren’t you the little man?’ she coos. ‘You have your grandfather’s laugh to a tee. Look at that smile, Marie. Who does he remind you of?’
Marie Sweeney has only the vaguest memory of Con the Brake but has learnt what response is demanded. ‘Your husband, Mrs C. Like two peas.’
Bella’s plan is to take the baby on a tour of Denniston town and up to the school. She has hired Nolly and the Hanratty cart for the morning. Tom and Totty think the cart is needed for furniture shifting — a necessary prevarication as Bella’s triumphant entry into grandmotherhood only highlights their loss.
‘We will make a grand parade of Dickson Street, Marie. Call on Mrs O’Dowd and Mrs Gorman and Miss Amy Jessop. It is all very well my grandson growing up with the miners at Burnett’s Face, but his roots are at this end of the Hill and his introduction is well overdue.’
Marie is happy enough to join in the fun. She hasn’t seen Bella so lively in months. ‘Mrs C, these plans and expeditions are all very well, but have you considered your health? Can you manage the cart? And for another matter, Hanrattys live on Dickson Street.’
Bella has thought of everything. ‘I will have you and Nolly to help manage me and my grandson.’ (There is always a flourish to the way this word is pronounced.) ‘As for the Hanrattys, we will turn up towards the school before we come to the saloon. The children will love to see my wee fellow.’
‘You would interrupt classes?’ Mrs Sweeney is a strict one for education, even though her boys left at thirteen to work in the mines.
Bella taps her stick on the floorboards to bring Marie to order. ‘Conrad Scobie here is a living history lesson. He is three generations on the Hill. Grandson of my legendary husband, first brakesman, and of myself, first teacher. I will explain it all to the children, and you can be sure Mr Stringer will applaud the lesson.’
Marie Sweeney turns away to hide her smile. ‘Well, I had best put on my afternoon dress if we are going visiting. I will be back in two shakes to help you with yours.’
She is worried that the exertion will damage what is left of Bella
’s health, but the sensible woman also recognises that the benefit to the old lady’s spirits may be more important.
Bella arranges the beautiful christening gown over Con. At seven months the bonny lad no longer fits it, but Bella cannot resist showing off her fine needlework. She tucks the ivory whale’s tooth into his basket. It is Con’s favourite toy. He holds it with both fat hands and chumbles away on the smooth point. A tooth for teething, Bella says, but when the teeth are through she will put it away for fear of damage.
‘Oh, how beautiful you are,’ she whispers to the sleeping lad. She will not ever mention the fact that he is the spit of her own dead baby, for fear the diphtheria will claim him too, come winter. ‘Let us show you off, my little king, to your kingdom on the Hill.’
And here is Nolly and the cart, waiting quietly at the gate, and Marie Sweeney bustling in to tie Bella’s ribbons and button her at the back. At last Bella Rasmussen, the Black Widow, the Queen of the Camp, marches stoutly out, ignoring knees and back.
‘Don’t you wake him!’ warns Bella as Nolly lifts the basket into the tray and wedges it between two bales of hay. ‘I want him fresh and sonsy for the ladies.’
Between them Nolly and Marie manage to bundle a puffing Bella onto the bench-seat of the cart, where Nolly has placed a cushion. Bella bites her lip but says nothing. She expects this will be her last expedition, and intends to enjoy every minute of it. ‘You are a good lad, Nolly,’ she wheezes. ‘Let us be off, then.’
Nolly knows very well that shifting furniture is not the purpose of this trip and he approves. He is sad, though, to recognise that his parents will neither receive nor welcome a visit. It seems to Nolly that nothing he or Liza can do will ever erase the gap Michael has left.
THE visits are all that Bella hoped for. She has sent notes ahead to announce times, and Mrs Gorman and Mrs O’Dowd are ready with their best baking and a friend or two to admire the child. Little Con produces smiles and gurgles and everyone dutifully sees both Con and Rose in the baby’s fine looks. Then everyone processes across the road to Miss Amy Jessop, whose general store and postal services provides a larger venue. The party is in full swing when in walks Totty Hanratty, come with a letter to post.
She stands in the door, looking from woman to woman.
‘Mrs Hanratty, my dear,’ says Miss Amy Jessop, who is a brave and forthright lady, proud of her manners, ‘come in and join us in a pot of tea. Mrs C has brought us her grandson.’
The other women also murmur encouragement. Bella, who sits on the one chair among sacks of provisions, little Conrad on her lap, nods to Totty, hoping the gesture lacks any hint of the triumph she feels.
Totty can move neither forward nor back, it seems. Slowly she holds up her letter but still says nothing. It is Nolly, down from his cart and now at her side, who saves the day. Gently he takes her by the arm as if supporting someone much older. With his free hand he takes the letter from her.
‘I think you are especially busy today, Mother, is that right?’
Totty manages a nod.
‘Well then, I will post this for you and let you be on your way.’ Nolly turns his mother, but before he can lead her out, Bella, who has never been able to let an emotional moment escape unmarked, cries out.
‘Totty, Totty! Will you not give him your blessing? An innocent child?’ Bella, coughing and wheezing with her own pent feelings, holds the laughing baby out. ‘We have seen so much together, Totty! Can the new life not mend old fences? Come in, come in, my old friend!’
But the outburst is too much for Totty. For a moment she stands in the doorway, then smiles, gives her son a wordless pat and leaves. Nolly stands in the doorway watching her slow steps up Dickson Street. When he returns with the letter his young face shows his embarrassment. ‘Miss Amy Jessop, my mother doesn’t mean to be rude. It is just —’
‘Nelson, my boy,’ says the postmistress gently, ‘we have known your mother longer than you have, some of us. We all know what she is feeling. It might have helped her if she could have stayed …’
‘I know.’
‘But maybe she will come to it later.’
The women stir. They rustle their skirts and make small noises. Take nibbles of cake. Even little Con is subdued.
‘She was my closest friend,’ says Bella, sighing, ‘and now there is a chasm between us that neither has dug. Will she get over it, Nolly?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Nor I. She used to be such a happy soul.’
‘But in any case,’ says the boy, ‘this is your day, Mrs C, and we should move on before you lose your strength.’
The women smile and nod at such good sense from one so young. It takes many hands, though, to return Bella to the cart.
The school visit is pure triumph. Henry Stringer, a more cheerful man these days, makes a great fuss, seating her in the largest room, with all the children on the floor around her. Many have not met the old lady, who is mostly bedridden. Bella invites them to touch little Con’s tiny hands. She teaches them a sea song that Con the Brake taught her many years ago, and they all sing it to the baby. Then she holds them all spellbound with stories of the old days when there was no road to Denniston — no track, even! When her husband, Con the Brake, brought every man, woman, child and their belongings up to Denniston in the coal wagons.
‘What happened to him — that other Con?’ asks one of the older O’Dowds, who has heard rumours.
Bella pauses a moment and glances over to Henry Stringer. The headmaster winks, knowing an embroidery of the truth is on the way.
‘Well now,’ says Bella, ‘he was a seaman at heart, my husband, and one day he set out on a short voyage — just to remember what salt spray tasted like, you understand. But a great storm arose, with waves as high as the roof of this school. Higher even!’ Bella’s swooping arms create the picture. ‘And a blizzard drove up from the south, with hail to blind a man, and cold black ice to form on the ropes and the sails to make them heavy as lead.’
Every child’s eye is round, every mouth hangs open. Henry Stringer remembers what a great teacher this woman has been and regrets he has not brought her to the school in recent years. He sighs to think what a fool he has been over so many things. But is it possible to change?
Bella is in her element, with little Con asleep on her lap and the children agog. ‘So in the end, despite the fine seamanship of Conrad and the other sailors, the ship keeled over with all that frozen weight aloft and all were lost.’
‘Like the electric wire coming down last winter with the ice?’
‘Exactly so, Sandy McGee.’
Sandy puffs up, to be recognised by such a famous lady.
‘And now, children,’ says Henry, who can see how tired and drawn Bella has suddenly become, ‘shall we sing a song to our first teacher on Denniston and her new grandson to send them safely on their way?’
As the party heads home to the strains of ‘Over the Sea to Skye’, Nolly says, ‘I’ve never heard that story about Con the Brake’s death.’
‘Nor I,’ says Marie Sweeney quietly from the tray of the cart, where she steadies the baby’s basket.
‘Have you not?’ says Bella, and then, to change the subject, ‘Thank you, Nolly. You are a good lad. I hope this will not get you in trouble.’
The Sound of the Sea
DURING THE FIRST two years of little Con’s life Rose was busy with events at the Face. She still taught at the school. Her idea to use a chain and hook on the coal boxes was taken seriously. Brennan himself experimented, with the help of the engineering shop and a team of young clippies. Soon all the lads were practising snaking the chain around the moving wire rope, then hooking it off and unwinding with a neat flick of the wrist.
‘Rose Scobie,’ said the mine manager, after a demonstration had been arranged, ‘I hear the original idea came from you. We owe you a favour, indeed we do; this will increase production, indeed it will.’
‘Mr Symonds,’ said Rose, bold as brass
, ‘I’ll take a favour, then, indeed I will. How many shares in your company would you say the idea was worth?’
That took the manager aback. But when he saw the row of boxes, heaped high and moving steadily around corners, he shook her hand and said he’d see what might be done; he’d speak to Brennan.
‘Oho, no you won’t,’ said Rose. ‘Over shares you will deal with me.’ At which Janet Scobie had to grin. Brennan was a soft-hearted man for all his stubborn streak. Rose knew she would drive the better bargain. Which she did, though the details of the agreement were never common knowledge. Rose kept money matters close to her chest. Even her husband had no idea.
These were prosperous times for Denniston. It was often said, later, that the fortunes of Rose and of Denniston were joined at the hip, like Siamese twins. True, perhaps, in the wider picture, but then you would have to discount 1905 and 1906: good years for the mines; dark, difficult years for Rose.
First Bella died. Not unexpected, of course, but the old lady’s delight over her grandchild had perhaps masked the deterioration taking place in her body. She died, it was supposed, in her sleep. In fact no one was there. Rusty McGill now had his own accommodation up at his saloon. Inch Donaldson always went early to the shop and made tea and toast on the premises. And Will Scobie slept up at the Hanratty stables most days. So it was not until later that afternoon, when Will arrived at the log house — out of anxiety perhaps, or with a piece of gossip — that Bella’s body was discovered lying half out of bed. She had on her best lace nightgown, though, and her ruby earrings, which made you think …
Will straightened her, pulled the sheet up smoothly, then ran for his horse. He galloped over the plateau, not sparing his precious Black Knight, jumping bushes and taking risky short-cuts, to arrive in a lather at Burnett’s Face school. Rose saw him ride down the rope-road, spattering coal, and ran outside, forgetting schoolchildren and little Con. She knew. Could see it anyway in the tear-stained face of Willie the Rat.
Without a word — he couldn’t have got one out to save his life — Will manoeuvred Black Knight against the school gate. Rose, also silent, climbed the gate and leapt up behind, clasping the little fellow around the waist as if he were bosom friend, not hated rival. Away they galloped, back down the rope-road and out of sight.
Heart of Coal Page 19